


Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

by bienenalster (pinkspider), Pax



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Podfic, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:27:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkspider/pseuds/bienenalster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pax/pseuds/Pax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack can appreciate a good game of beer pong in someone's basement, especially when Parse is on his team, one arm around his shoulder as he tries to get Jack to miss his shot.</p><p>(Jack never really understood how Parse can just turn it off like that. If you want to win on the ice, then you should want to win all the time. Even at stupid things, like beer pong.)</p><p>(Jack has never considered the possibility that beer pong might not be the only game Parse is playing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Pax's Notes: So basically, one evening, Biene and I were chatting about Kent Parson's status as a trashdragon*, and I was struck by a SUDDEN AND TERRIBLE NEED for Kent/Jack shotgunning fic that DID NOT EXIST, and Biene was all, "be the change you wish to see in the world, my friend," and then this happened. I made her podfic it for me, because it was 200% her fault.
> 
> Biene's Notes: Ah, friendships based on mutual enabling.
> 
> The text (written by Pax) and a link to the podfic (read by Biene) are both below.

**Podfic**  
[Click to download mp3.](https://www.dropbox.com/s/fds51r59qbdmaj4/smoke%20gets%20in%20your%20eyes.mp3?dl=0)

**Full Text Below**

Some people are born with an uncanny ability to find a party. Jack isn’t one of them. Kenny is. Jack thinks that it is entirely possible that Kenny generates parties as a by-product of his being; all he really has to do is send out a text, or scroll through Facebook, and one materializes, in an old house on the outskirts of town or a roped-off city block or an apartment complex near the university.

The house parties are always filled to the brim with kids excited for their first SoCo and Lime and girls with blue eyeshadow and giggles bursting out of their lips, and some nights, that's just fine. Jack can appreciate a good game of beer pong in someone's basement, especially when Parse is on his team, one arm around his shoulder as he tries to get Jack to miss his shot.

(Jack never really understood how Parse can just turn it off like that. If you want to win on the ice, then you should want to win all the time. Even at stupid things, like beer pong.)

(Jack has never considered the possibility that beer pong might not be the only game Parse is playing.)

But still, Jack thinks he likes the apartment parties best. It's an older crowd, more college students than high schoolers. The mystery punch tastes a little less like it came out of a plastic tub, or a literal tub for that matter, and he gets into a really interesting conversation with a redheaded history major who thinks the Ghost Army's impact on D-Day is seriously underrated.

He's so far out of his league, in every sense, but he's trying to convince her that the Ghost Army's prominence has increased sufficiently in recent years to the point where it's no longer a "forgotten" campaign when Parse throws his arm around his neck and whispers, breath hot against one ear, "C'mon, nerd, let's get this party started."

Jack is confused, and a little irritated on the redhead's behalf, but Parse has him in the gentle beginnings of a headlock, so he just smiles apologetically and says "Catch you later, eh?" as Parse drags him off to the balcony.

"Parse, dude, not cool," Jack laughs, stumbling into Parse as he motors along. This position really isn't working. Parse is way shorter than he is. He has to bend over for Parse's arm to stay around his shoulder, and it throws him off-balance. "Get off me, you limpet."

Parse finally lets go, and skips along backwards, stopping in front of the balcony door. His eyes are shining bright and a little bit red-rimmed, and his hair is even more messed up than usual. "Trust me," Parse says, "This is going to be totally worth it." His smile is three am Timmy’s runs and the last seconds before the buzzer sounds and every kind of trouble they've gotten into in the past three years, and Jack thinks about heading back and finding the history major, but. The mystery punch is sitting comfortably in his stomach on top of the Valium (he'll cut back after the playoffs, really, he will), and it's not like he's ever been good at saying no to Parse.

The night air on the balcony is cool after the press of the apartment; shit is marginally less likely to get wrecked at apartment parties than house parties, but, you know, it's still a party. There's no one else out on the balcony; it's just them, a little patio table, and a glider jammed into an itty-bitty balcony overlooking some extremely scenic, trash-filled underbrush. Off in the distance, the woods behind the apartment complex are dark against the night sky. Jack's confused, and gets even more confused when Parse grabs a door wedge off the little table and shoves it under the closed door, locking them out.

"Parse?"

Parse grabs him by the shoulders and sits him down on the glider. "Okay, so, remember how you were all freaking out about your 'image' or whatever the other day?"

"Yeah, so?"

"And how you never get to do really fun stuff at parties because there's always some idiot with a cameraphone?"

"Where are you going with this, Parse?"

Parse grins wide. "Well, look around." He gestures at the woods. "No cameras," then to himself and Jack "only two idiots, and," he produces something from behind his back, "Some 'really fun stuff.'"

The glass pipe is the same ridiculous blue-green swirl as Parse's eyes, and is gleaming almost as much in the porchlight.

Jack isn't actually altogether sure about this. He has a nice buzz going now, and he wouldn't mind just sitting out under the stars and shooting the shit with Parse. But it's at least two months until World Junior's and his next drug test, and he might not get this chance again.

Parse is looking at him expectantly, his face starting to fall a little. "I would have thought you'd be happier. How about a 'Fuck Yeah' for your buddy, eh?"

"Eff yeah," Jack says, laughing. "Okay, so how does this work?"

Parse smiles, and produces a lighter from his pocket, striking it and holding it to the bowl. The light casts flickering shadows under his cheekbones as he raises the pipe to his lips, sucking the flame down into the bowl of the pipe. He does it a few times before he seems satisfied with the health of the embers of weed glowing in the pipe, then brings it down. He sighs contentedly. "Toking 101. Make sure to cover the little hole on the side when you breathe in." His long fingers almost cover the pipe, but his thumb bends back to show Jack the right way to hold it. "Breathe in steady, hold it for a bit, then breathe out and pass it back. No bogarting the bowl."

Jack likes the look on Parse's face, eager and happy. He always likes it when he can talk Jack into cutting loose, and Jack likes it when Parse likes things. He throws himself in, enthusiastically, and it's hard not to get sucked in after him.

Jack is maybe a little distracted when he takes his first hit, and pulls in deep, meditation-breathing style, trying to calm himself.

This is a drastic mistake.

The smoke feels fine in his mouth, warm and slightly dry, but when he tries to pull it in farther, down into the deepest part of his lungs, something in him backfires. His lungs feel like they're on fire, because, well, they are. He tries to cough, but he still has the pipe to his lips, and the weed bursts out the end of the bowl, showering hot ashes all over him and Parse.

"Dude!" Parse says, laughing. "You blew the bowl! Major party foul, jackass!"

Jack is still valiantly trying to hack up his lungs. The inside of his throat feels raw; he finally understands the whole "I smoked, but I never inhaled" thing, and honestly, it makes a ton of sense.

" _Merde_ , man, I'm sorry. I, uh," he coughs, "It was a little unexpected." 

Parse pats his back reassuringly. "It's okay, you doof. We'll make it work." He gathers up as much of the weed as he can, repacking and relighting the bowl. "This has just become more of a two-man drill, that's all."

"Huh?" Jack says.

"Okay. So, when I breathe out, you breathe in, got it?"

"Kenny, what -"

Parse takes another hit, but instead of breathing out, he sets the bowl down and leans over to Jack, cupping his hands around Jack's mouth. "Just breathe," he says, very small, only a tiny amount of air coming out, and then sets his mouth like a seal against his hands.

And Jack just - breathes.

The smoke is cooler when it comes out of Kenny's lungs, and more sweet. It tastes less like fire and more like cool grass and the last remnants of Kenny's whiskey.

It’s wonderful.

Jack holds it in his lungs as long as he can, eyes closed, until Kenny takes his hands away, and then breathes out slowly, watching the smoke rise up to the stars in a thin stream.

"See?" Kenny says. "Easy as sin."

"I'm not sure it's working," Jack says in a minute, after Kenny takes a hit of his own. The smoke was nice, but he still mostly just feels drunk.

"Another?" Kenny says, raising his eyebrows, and Jack nods. Kenny takes another hit, and this time, Jack uses his own hands, leans over and breathes deep as Kenny exhales.

It’s beyond bizarre, breathing the same air as Kenny, and it only gets more intense when Kenny leans back over ("Round three, Zimms.") and breathes out without his hands, their lips almost touching, but not quite, just smoke and air and the effortless connection of a no-look pass, and of course they're as good at this as they are at anything, of course. It's Kenny and him, number one and number two, and it doesn't really matter which as Jack tries his hand at taking a hit directly from the bowl again and nails it.

Kenny leans over and gulps at his smoke anyway, sucking in the swirls of white as the wind carries them away and working his way in towards Jack's mouth, and he looks so much like a goldfish that Jack has to start laughing, leaning in to Kenny and tucking him in against one arm.

Kenny looks up at Jack and smiles. "Told you, dude; I'll take care of you, mess-ups and all."

It's nice, and he's warm like the smoke was warm, and Jack is starting to realize that the pot is definitely working now, whatever he thought, when someone starts banging on the balcony door.

Kenny leaps up, tapping the long-dead bowl out into a plastic bag and shoving the whole mess into his pocket. "Hold your horses, asshole!" he hollers, holding his hand out to Jack. "Whaddaya say, Zimms, ready to go back and be the life of the party?"

And really, Jack can't complain about that, especially not when it turns out that apartment parties sometimes have beer pong too, and he and Kenny can still take all comers, even when they're giggly and hanging all over each other.

(Everyone wins their game that night.)

**Author's Note:**

> ANY RESEMBLANCE OF JACK'S PARTY FOULS TO PARTY FOULS LIVING OR DEAD IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.
> 
> *A brief explanation of trashdragon:
> 
> Biene: I thought I was gonna do my Spanish homework but instead I podficced and egged you on.  
> Pax: HAHAHAHAH like Kent Parson, I am a trashdragon and a saboteur of responsibility  
> Biene: Why trash*dragon* nebenbei?  
> Biene: ....  
> Biene: please ignore my German  
> Pax: Given the choice, why not be a dragon?  
> Biene: Does Parse deserve that designation?  
> Pax: He is the Trogdor of Jack's personal life  
> Biene: ............  
> Biene: i am doing the biggest facepalm, comrade  
> Pax: VICTORY IS MINE 
> 
> A note from Biene: if you are interested in learning the basics of the Ghost Army, as we all should be because it is really nifty, [this podcast](http://www.missedinhistory.com/podcasts/the-ghost-army/) is a good starting point.


End file.
